


here's to us

by braille_upon_my_skin



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: A potpourri of various genres, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Phillip's parents are the worst., The author's usual brand of pretentiousness., depictions of ptsd, so hopefully there is something here for everyone to enjoy.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 6,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24045379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braille_upon_my_skin/pseuds/braille_upon_my_skin
Summary: "Here's to us, here's to love, all the times that we messed up. Here's to you, fill the glass, 'cause the last few days have gone too fast. So, let's give 'em hell, wish everybody well. Here's to us."Another collection of prompts- Barlyle style.
Relationships: Charity Barnum/P. T. Barnum, Implied Lettie Lutz/Prince Constantine, P. T. Barnum/Phillip Carlyle, Phillip Carlyle & Anne Wheeler, The Circus Family
Comments: 37
Kudos: 29





	1. un. comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again, my darlings!
> 
> It has come to my attention that this fandom is slowly but surely dying, and I can't permit that to happen, or leave the task of keeping things afloat solely on [BuddysImpala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuddysImpala/pseuds/BuddysImpala)'s hardworking, driven shoulders. So...
> 
> This document has been sitting on my laptop for months, being sporadically picked at, off and on, during random, spontaneous bursts of inspiration. After a fair deal of time spent hemming and hawing, I bit the bullet and decided that enough prompts were satisfactorily finished, and ready to be shared with the world. 
> 
> These are trying times upon us. I can't claim to know what all of you are going through, but I hope and pray that my words offer you some form of comfort, or distraction, at the very least, until the worst of it has come to pass. Tread ahead safely, as always, and please, please, please, be kind and take care of yourselves. ❤
> 
> \----
> 
> The story title and lyrics in the plot summary originate from the Halestorm song, "Here's To Us". Though, Lea Michele's cover is my version of choice and go-to for a swell of Barlyle feelings.

*

Street lamps color the freshly fallen snow preternatural orange, ice crystals turned glinting embers winking up at Phillip as he staggers, lungs beleaguered, feet lead, legs unsteady, wobbling, fingers- _sprained, not broken, they_ ** _can't_** _be broken_ \- throbbing faintly, already numbing from the bitter cold.

Still, he persists, knowing that he will _drag_ himself the rest of the way if he has to. He promised Caroline and Helen he would read to them, tonight, finish the tale of Robin Hood. His nightly cup of tea with Charity, Earl Gray and immediately soothing as it slides down the throat and hits the stomach, awaits him. And, _Phineas_ …

Warm hazel eyes glowing whisky-amber and golden honey, that endearingly crooked grin, a sturdy form, strong arms to envelope him, a distinct, striking nose to nuzzle against his, safety, love, home, family. _Phineas_.

Who will, of course, scold and question him for meeting with his parents- _you_ ** _know_** _what they're like, Phillip-_ before hurrying about, tutting and fussing under his breath while faithful, unfaltering Charity bandages Phillip's fingers swollen and bruising and so _cold_.

He has to get back. Has to. Has to. _Has_ to.

Icy air stings his throat, pulls pained coughs from him as he trudges up the walkway- _just a little farther, just a little_ \- each stair to the lofty, ornate front doors a Goliath to slay, and shaking, useless hands struggle to get his key into the lock, nearly dropping it on the porch.

_Almost_ , he tells himself. _I'm--_

One of the doors opens, sending light spilling out, bathing Phillip. A tall form fills the doorway, hazel eyes shining with unequivocal elation, a broad smile, _for Phillip_ , _happy_ to see him, to welcome him home, and low notes of a baritone as perfect and soothing as Charity's tea wash over him.

"Phillip! There you are! We were beginning to worry that you had gotten yourself lost. The girls have been waiting up for you. They _refuse_ to go to bed without hearing the conclusion of Robin Hood and his Band of Merry Men's adventu _uu_ \--"

Before he's fully realized it, Phillip has thrown himself against Phineas. His beacon, safe haven, salvation. He presses and burrows into Phineas's neck, desperate, overcome, quaking legs ready to give out underneath him.

"Phil?" Phineas inquires, his characteristic good humor replaced instantly by concern. "Are you all right? What happened, what's wrong?"

Phillip can't answer him just yet. At last he can breathe, again, melting, sinking into his home. His _home_.

The door is closed behind him. Strong hands rest on his back, muscles in a throat move against his temple, and a steady, steadfast form holds him upright. 

"I'm so relieved you made it back," Phineas whispers, candid, polished façade and showman mendaciousness gone and heart bared, right on his sleeve, when there's no risk of innocent, easily wrought up ears overhearing.

"Me, too," Phillip manages through chattering teeth. Warmth from Phineas slowly seeps into him, returning sensation to deadened appendages. The pain of his injured fingers is inconsequential.

He's here. At last.


	2. deux. kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _This is how Phineas Taylor Barnum and Phillip Carlyle kiss._

*

Lips and bodies melding tenderly; a caress, a comfort, a reunion.

Lips crashing against each other; waves and riptides of nibbling teeth and roaming tongues and clutching, grasping, grabbing entangled limbs.

Lips pressing to foreheads, noses, and hairlines, crowns of heads and fingertips, palms, and knuckles.

Lips charting columns of throats, dips and ridges of clavicles, slopes of pectorals and definition in abdomens, and, trailing down, down, marking scarred skin with loving, possessive bites from blunt front teeth and pin-sharp incisors.

This is how Phineas Taylor Barnum and Phillip Carlyle kiss. Life-changing and affirming. World-redefining. Coming back home.


	3. trois. soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Now you don't need to make up an excuse for wanting to cuddle close to me during our long nights in the office."_

*

The last strip of red ribbon slips through Phillip's fingers, and, Phineas at his shoulder, observing, expectant, he lifts the lid of the parcel, gold and coruscating in the lantern light.

Inside, he finds a scarf, wool and, he confirms, brushing his thumb deferentially across the material, fleece, dyed a gorgeous shade of deep blue.

"Phin--" He starts, awe and affection, vast and fathomless as any of the seven seas, tight in his throat and expanding in his chest.

"Go ahead." Phineas sets a warm, grounding hand on Phillip's shoulder, his baritone low and encouraging. "Take it out. Try it on."

With the greatest care, Phillip begins removing the scarf from its packaging, marveling at the quality of the material; the durability of the wool, the softness of the fleece. He's soon perplexed, however, brows furrowing, as the ribboned section of scarf folded neatly in his hand only continues to grow, while more and more length of fabric remains in the box. "This isn't a stealthy jab at my height, is it? Because this would be a bit extreme, even by _your_ standards."

Phineas's answering hearty laugh dispels that concern. And, the quailing disappointment beginning to settle heavily in the pit of Phillip's stomach. He slips one hand over Phillip's, taking hold of the parcel, and deftly lifts the rest of the scarf free, then… loops it around Phillip's neck.

Understanding dawning on him, Phillip takes up the unspoken cue and repeats the action on Phineas, chest flush against his partner's, faces mere inches apart.

"Now," Phineas says, voice a soft rumble that vibrates gratifyingly through Phillip, spreading warmth all the way to the tips of Phillip's toes, his hands coming to rest on Phillip's hips, coaxing Phillip closer still, until Phineas's next words are spoken against Phillip's forehead, "you don't need to make up an excuse for wanting to cuddle close to me during our long nights in the office."

Phillip smiles, nudging Phineas's chin with his nose. "And, _you_ don't have to justify your insatiable need to hover at my side all day."

" _That_ 's a need that never required justifying." Phineas grins, whisky eyes gold as honey, teeming with volumes of love. More than any of Phillip's novels and tomes, and scripts and anthologies, and compendiums of poetry could ever hold.

Tucking down into the scarf- Phineas's scarf, for him, for _them_ , the ingenious madman, the owner of his heart and all that he is- Phillip wraps his arms around Phineas and nuzzles into the crook of his neck, wishing it were possible to pour his own love for his partner into lakes, oceans, reservoirs, numberless inkwells. Anything visible. Measurable. Quantifiable.

Anything that would quell the insecurities lurking beneath the extravagant surface of Phineas Taylor Barnum's showman façade.

That a poor tailor's son, a street urchin, a scoundrel, a man whose riches will always be tarred by the grit and grime of his working class past, a man who worked tirelessly to give his family everything they ever dreamed, who gave so many lost souls a place to call home, who _saved_ Phillip in all the ways Phillip never hoped he could be saved-- is "unworthy" of love.

"'He found the city a city of bricks'," Phillip murmurs, lips to Phineas's pulse point, beautiful, perfect, as perfect as the scarf, the corporeal tether bringing and keeping them together, woven by Phineas's own hands. "'He left it a city of marble'."

"Did he?" Phineas's voice is a rasp, strained as he threads the fingers of one hand into the hairs on the back of Phillip's head.

"Yes." Phillip tilts his head up, intentionally, _meaningfully_ meeting Phineas's searching eyes with his own. "He did."


	4. quatre. pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"...so hot, so intense, so perverse, it's as if he's coming undone..."_

*

Phillip gasps, amorous, needy, arching off of the mattress as Phineas bites into the thin layer of flesh over his breastbone, and pleasure undulates through him, so hot, so intense, so _perverse_ , it's as if he's coming undone, as large hands wrap around his throat, squeezing just tightly enough to cause a hitch in his breath.


	5. cinq. potatoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"At least the potatoes made it into our stew **mostly** unscathed, this time."_

*

"At least the potatoes made it into our stew _mostly_ unscathed, this time," Phineas merrily assures the troupe, who turn chary stares onto Phillip, a good majority of them shaking their heads as he sheepishly conceals his freshly bandaged thumb and forefinger behind his back.


	6. six. rain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Only Phineas could convince Phillip to cast his umbrella aside, leaving it to loll carelessly against the striped canvas of the main tent, and allow himself to be swept up, into a bridal carry._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was inspired by Taylor Swift's "Fearless", yet another song perfect for imbuing one with a swell of Barlyle feelings.

*

Only Phineas could convince Phillip to cast his umbrella aside, leaving it to loll carelessly against the striped canvas of the main tent, and allow himself to be swept up, into a bridal carry.

Only Phineas would beam dazzlingly, whisky eyes sparkling and crinkling wondrously at the corners, while the wind takes his hat- _magenta_ , positively absurd and everyone who knows and loves Phineas would expect no less- off of his head and sends it rolling end over end down the coastline.

And, only Phineas could laugh, so full and so heartily, that it coaxes a smile-turned-grin and peals of rhapsodic laughter from Phillip, himself, creating a chorus of heedless mirth that accompanies the rhythmic patter of rain soaking their clothes and everything in sight as they twirl round and round on feet lighter than air.


	7. sept. chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Hot chocolate?"_
> 
> _"The **perfect** thing for a day like today."_

*

Phineas bustles into the office with his usual élan to find Phillip sat his desk, rubbing near-frozen hands together in a futile attempt to bring some sort of heat to them. Clucking his tongue in sympathy, Phineas approaches the hunched figure of his partner, holding out a mug filled with piping--

"Hot chocolate?" Phillip inquires after he has taken a careful, delicate sip, mindful, of course- he's rarely anything else- not to scald himself. His distinct brows rise, and the tip of his tongue ventures ever so shyly out to lick at the faint line of chocolate staining his upper lip.

Chest buoyed by the deeply endearing sight, Phineas raises his own mug in a cheery salute. "The _perfect_ thing for a day like today." A grin spreads wide across his face and he partakes of his own drink, relishing the hint of wonder that sparks in Phillip's eyes.


	8. huit. telephone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"You'll see, Phillip. Getting one of these will expedite everything! It will be a step into the future!"_

*

_"You'll see, Phillip. Getting one of these will expedite everything! It will be a step into the future!"_

_Yet more famous last words from The World's Greatest Showman_ , Phillip muses, sipping drolly at his morning coffee as the twentieth call from bill collectors within the past week spurs a thoroughly fed up Phineas to disconnect the " _damned, infernal telephone_ ", and stow it in a drawer, punctuating his disposal with a markedly petulant and unnecessary- though perhaps justified- kick, and pronouncement of, " _Good riddance_ ".


	9. neuf. name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Our secret."_

*

"Our secret," Phineas breathes, warm on Phillip's face, pleasant and effervescent on Phillip's still tingling lips, and the silver pendant falls against Phillip's breast, the words engraved upon it now forever and always tattooed to his heart.

_My Darling and my Dearest, Phillip Barnum._


	10. dix. sensual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nothing is as sensual to Phillip as running his hands along the rutilant cashmere of Phineas's ringmaster's coat..._

*

Nothing is as sensual to Phillip as running his hands along the rutilant cashmere of Phineas's ringmaster's coat, fisting it in his hands, breathing in every intoxicating scent woven into the very fibres of it, and journeying beneath it to explore the hot skin peppered with dark hair waiting, _just for him_.


	11. onze. sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Before, sex existed as little more than a concept. **Now** , Phillip understands that sex is..._

*

Before, sex existed as little more than a concept. A culmination of ignited passions merely hinted at in fade-to-blacks and blank spaces serving as transitions into _morning-after_ s. A biological imperative laid out in detached, clinical terms in the pages of medical textbooks. A shameful vulgarity discussed only in the darkest corners of the seediest bars and back alleyways.

Before… Desire, attraction, _lust_ , _especially_ the perverse sort haunting the corridors of Phillip's mind and thrumming, illicit pulses of knotting, aching, pooling heat under his skin, would have been nothing but catalysts for the most severe reprisal.

_"No son of mine will be a degenerate sodomite. You_ **_will_ ** _correct this_ **_error in judgment_** _, Phillip, find the fear of God your mother and I have tried our hardest to instill in you, and regain some_ **_semblance_ ** _of the moral decency befitting of your_ **_place_** _."_

_"Do you understand me, boy?"_

And, back then, Phillip had understood.

_Now_ , Phillip understands that sex is:

Phillip pinned against the wall, his legs wound around Phineas's waist, a squeezing vise caging Phineas, pressing him closer, closer, as Phineas ravishes him, pounding into him with mouth buried in the crook of Phillip's neck and breathless, ardent kisses littered over Phillip's cheeks, jaw, and forehead and teeth nibbling and tugging at Phillip's lower lip as their ragged pants and barely restrained moans fill the space around them.

Phillip recumbent, spread out across the bed with hands bound above his head and Phineas, a flawless landscape of sculpted muscle and felid power and grace and dark eyes that Phillip couldn't tear his gaze from if he tried, looming spectacularly over him, marking Phillip's topography with rosy _x_ s, tongue, teeth, and skating nails teasing maddeningly, descending lower and lower, leaving Phillip a helpless squirming mess beneath him, alight with inglorious _need_.

Phillip in Phineas's lap, writhing hungrily, heels of his hands pressing hard into the planes of Phineas's shoulders, keens eking out between his teeth and torn, breathy cries of white hot pleasure ripping through him, lightning and rumbling thunder collecting at the back of his throat, as Phineas encourages him, baritone husky, thick with his accent, _pure_ ** _sin_** , _"Yes, Phillip. Yes, yes, darling…_ ** _Christ_** _. Just like that. Good boy. My good…"_

Phineas pushing in as deep as barriers of flesh, blood, and bone will allow, Phillip resting spurring heels on the small of Phineas's back, nudging, providing impetus, fingers and fingernails leaving imprints, and Phillip's length- so hard, _so_ \- rubbing deliciously against firm ripples of abdominal muscle that any deity would envy.

Unbroken eye contact that sears to the core, and Phillip, drunk and delirious on lotus and ambrosia and _Phineas_ , pleading for _more_ , _so_ _good_ s, and _God_ s, and _Phineas, God, yes,_ ** _Phineas_** s streaming from him in a high, strained whine he would, in any other context, be ashamed to confess is his.

Climaxes that unmake them, every cell and atom splitting apart and coming back together to form a new being entirely. One that settles into its soma to find every pore and vein and ounce of marrow awash in a sense of renewal, revitalization, and fathomless, ineffable love, love, love, **_love_**.

_"I love you"_ s whispered reverently into mouths and skin, damp frays of hair swept back from perspiration-lined foreheads, and the gentlest of kisses drying streaks of euphoric tears from Phillip's cheeks.

_Now_ , sex, for Phillip Carlyle, is unification. The final piece of a puzzle fitted into place. A harmony interweaving with its melody. Black and white contrasts blending into a soft shade of gray. It's intense, fracturing, desperate, and primal, and sometimes even startling; revealing sides of himself that Phillip never knew existed.

It's also healing. Warmth. A feeling of wholeness, fullness, and completion magnified by a staggeringly profound devotion that Phillip never dreamed he would- _could_ \- experience as he snuggles into the security of Phineas's chest and arms. Fallen, saved, found, _free_.

And, it is the both of them, bundled up in soft, fresh smelling linen sheets and downy duvets, slipping into a sound, thoroughly, _perfectly_ contented sleep to the serene metronome of each other's heartbeats.


	12. douze. weakness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Once, before, perhaps, Phillip could have matched his partner in stamina. Danced at his side for hours on end._
> 
> _**Unimpaired**._
> 
> _Before…_

*

Phillip watches from the periphery, leaning against a pillar that supports the stands.

Phineas. Effortlessly spry, agile, graceful. Long limbs toned with strength and power. Clad so fittingly in the shamelessly lurid costume that hugs, and _flatters_ , the broad barrel of his chest and artfully sculpted curves of his calves and thighs.

By all appearances, in his prime in _spite_ of the marks denoting the passage of time- shining strands of silver hairs amongst a mane of dark curls, laughter lines crinkling the corners of perennially luminous hazel eyes- that he wears with an innate elegance and charm, and hard-earned dignity.

He dances, weaves, struts, saunters, and parades, and a pang of envy, appalling and abhorrent, slithers insidiously through Phillip's insides.

Once, before, perhaps, Phillip could have matched his partner in stamina. Danced at his side for hours on end.

_Unimpaired_.

Before…

Another cough tremors through him, rattling his lungs, and Phillip raises his already soiled handkerchief to his mouth to muffle it, hyper-conscious of every thumbprint of soot that lines and _blackens_ his throat.


	13. treize. sickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"This won't be a repeat of what happened with your father."_

*

It had been a rough day. The usual rabble of protestors had gathered outside the tents, all too eager to incite violence, hurling harassment and spittle alike. The Lord of Leeds, Lettie, and Anne were struck with bouts of illness, leaving them down three performers and with gaping empty spaces no one could, or had the heart to attempt to, fill. Riggings had to be readjusted for the debut of new acts, set pieces shuffled about, and it required no less than five men to relocate the Human Cannonball's cannon to a different area of the second ring.

By nightfall, W.D. was rotating the ball of a sore shoulder in its socket, having had to exert himself thrice over to cover for his sister and abiding partner's absence. Constantine was uncharacteristically sullen, presumably comforting Lettie, but likely himself, as well, by brushing out the bearded woman's sleep-matted hair as she sipped gratefully at the tea prepared for her by Deng Yan. And, Phineas and Phillip were among the movers masking winces at the angry twinges in strained back, arm, and leg muscles.

Ms. Yan's assistant, Rosie, the Albino twins, and the Woman in Gold doted on Anne and the Lord of Leeds, lending Anne their warmest robes and shawls and wrapping the Lord of Leeds in a multitude of blankets, and ever-compassionate Vasily stooped as low as he could, bent nearly double, to serve the three indisposed members of the troupe steaming bowls of Phineas's finest chicken soup- _"better than any medicine on the market!"_

Before departing, Phillip had lent Anne his favorite collection of John Keats's poetry, and bid her farewell for the night with a soft kiss to the back of her hand, and an earnest whispered, "Get well soon."

Her sweet smile and unfailing resilience, glowing bright amber in the cinnamon pools of her eyes, was the feather-smoothing assurance that Phillip clung to as he and Phineas retired to their office.

There was still much work that remained to be done, come morning. The journey home wasn't worth undertaking when they'd have to board the train back into the city, first thing, standing shivering in the station before the sun began to lethargically peek over the frost-lined horizon.

Phineas is reticent as he and Phillip slip out of their clothes and take turns drawing the washcloths, stored with other resources and amenities in the far back of the office, over each other's chests and backsides, washing away dried sweat, cleaning grout from under fingernails, rinsing sawdust and glitter from hair with hot water from the washbasin, and kneading lightly at aching muscles.

Phillip notes the tremble in Phineas's hands, the white-knuckled grip he maintains on his washcloth as he runs it over the dip in Phillip's clavicle and down the valley between Phillip's pectorals, his expression blank. Like an automaton executing its predetermined sequence of action- plinking stiltedly away at the keys of a finely crafted miniature harpsichord, or emerging from the body of a clock to faithfully strike the hour with a bow or tip of the hat.

"Phin," Phillip says.

Phineas gives him a noncommittal hum in reply.

"Anne, Lettie, and the Lord of Leeds will be fine."

"I'm sure they will," Phineas mumbles, eyes clouded, fixed on some point around Phillip's navel. Distant.

Distracted.

"Phin," Phillip repeats. Firmer. Insistent. He stands on the balls of his feet, dropping the cloth back into the washbasin, and places his hands on either side of Phineas's face. 

Phineas jumps as if startled back to himself, head lifting and eyes clearing to focus on Phillip, who can feel the tightness in Phineas's jaw, the rigidity of his spine and arms, the unsteadiness in his legs.

"This won't be a repeat of what happened with your father."

Hazel eyes are questing as they roam over Phillip's face, looking for any flickers of uncertainty, telltale signs that Phillip is putting forth a calm front for Phineas's benefit and has no conviction to back his words.

Phillip has experience in acting.

Plastering on hollow smiles while rubbing elbows with his fellow socialites. Feigning interest in every debutante he was _persuaded_ to "entertain". Maintaining composure in the face of his father's wrath. Holding back tears that stung as sharply behind his eyes as the welts and contusions bitten newly into his skin.

Pretending that he didn't want to abandon his miserable life of suffocating "virtue", the moment P.T. Barnum approached him with a devilishly enticing lilt in his voice, broad, crooked grin, and hand extended.

But, here and now, Phillip offers nothing but heartfelt sincerity and unwavering certitude. Their family is _strong_ , and their vainglorious silver-tongued spearhead, master of ceremonies, and patriarch is the strongest of them all.

One would _have_ to be to survive the callous juvenescence he endured; to bear the crushing weight of a parent- a caregiver, a provider, a protector, a _constant_ , the only family Phineas had left in the world- fading before your eyes despite all efforts to save them.

"You're right," Phineas concedes, voice still no more than a mumble. Then, with a glimmer of his usual confidence, he adds, "Lettie, Anne, and our abdominous Lord are all of stout constitution."

Phillip arches an eyebrow, one corner of his mouth _just_ twitching at the less-than-subtle play on words.

"If it were you…"A hitch in his breath, Phineas trails off, and Phillip's heartbeat skips, stutters, lodges in his airway, painful pressure behind his Adam's apple, as liquid honey eyes glisten with an unexpected wet sheen. "If _you_ were the one who fell ill, your lungs couldn't… They aren't strong enough to fight it off. To--"

"Phineas." Phillip steadies his hand and tips Phineas's face toward him, once more, relying on touch to anchor Phineas to the present, where Phillip stands before him, so much more **_alive_** than he has ever been.

_All because of_ **_you_ ** _. Because you found me and made me…_

"I can't promise you that I will never take ill. That would be impractical, and unrealistic."

Tension corrugates Phineas's brow, harrowed green engulfing wheat gold irises, jaw clenching just perceptibly under Phillip's hands.

Reality has always been a weight that Phineas has taken it upon himself to bear. The lavish fantasies he weaves are more often a cloak to shield his family from the bitter ugliness and bottomless misery endemic in the world beyond, than a tapestry of escapism to envelope and submerge himself in when he needs glitter, extravagance, wishfulness, chimeras, and magic to _forget_.

Phillip knows, however, the parable of Atlas- that a mere mortal, however extraordinary, who interns himself with the weight of the world will ultimately, inevitably, be crushed beneath the world's weight.

And, he will never allow that fate to befall Phineas when he can relieve him of his burden stone by stone. Boulder by boulder.

Give him not a fantasy to shroud, divert, and soften, but a reality to bolster, encourage, and fortify.

"But, I _will_ give you my word that I will claw and fight my way back from any brink, surmount every obstacle in my path, to return to you. Because you gave me a reason- a _multitude_ of reasons- to want to _live_ , Phin."

Phineas's lips are parted, eye-contact intense, tortured, the sun scorching Icarus's wings and sending him plummeting down, down, spray of the ocean hitting Phillip's skin as he meets it unbroken, unflinching.

Then, Phineas is pulling Phillip into him, kissing him hard, desperately, need and anguish palpable in the set of his jaw, the way his hands clamp on Phillip's biceps. He melds his mouth to Phillip's, crushing, crashing against him as if Phillip is air and he's been underwater for so long, his lungs are _screaming_ for it. Phillip clings to him, melting, pliant, into Phineas's form. He rides out the wave with him until it ebbs, until the searing kisses subside to gentle brushes of lips at the corners of mouths, ridges of cheekbones, curves of jaws.

"Good God," Phineas murmurs hoarsely, mouth to the shell of Phillip's ear. "If I had lost you… If I had never found you…"

"You did so much more than find me." Phillip winds his arms around Phineas, holding him upright and praying with everything he has, tears pricking his eyes, for the strength to hold him _together_ , as well.

"And, thank whatever higher power there is that I did." Phineas pulls back to press a kiss to the crown of Phillip's head, and, cupping Phillip's face in one hand, he uses the other to stroke, so tenderly, that Phillip's ribs ache, heart far too big for his body, the scar that forever serves as a reminder of all that could have been lost to a Mount Vesuvius of a mere handful of hate-filled men's making. 

An _aide-mémoire_ of all that has been saved; recovered from ash, rubble, and despair to carry on one day more. And, another, and another, and another.

One step, one button through its hole, one cup of tea or coffee, one laugh, one smile, one _breath_ at a time.

Once satisfactorily clean, they redress before slight chills become full-body shivers, tugging on the spare nightshirts and trousers kept tucked in the office wardrobe for nights like this, and settle on the sofa, cups of tea warm in their hands and lantern light glowing softly from atop the gas stove.

Phineas's eyelids begin to droop as he finishes his tea, and Phillip assures him, parlance lilting gently, "It's okay. Go to sleep, Phin. Everyone and everything will be just fine."

It's enough.

Glazing hazel eyes flutter closed. Phineas's breaths begin to slow.

"I'll be here. I'll still be here," Phillip promises him, voice a soothing whisper.

Exhaustion at last overcomes Phineas and overtakes his anxieties. He nods faintly, murmurs a just barely coherent, "okay", and then he is asleep within seconds, listing against the arm of the sofa, cup dangling by its handle from his fingers.

Phillip takes the cup from him in delicate, surreptitious movements so as not to disturb him, and guides Phineas's head into his lap much the same way. He strokes reverent fingers through drying curls, feeling sleep fogging his own mind and weighing on his own eyes, and promises once more, as the dimming firelight catches the silver band on his second finger, "I'll _always_ be here."

Through sickness and health, as long as time allows.


	14. quatorze. home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It takes three weeks._
> 
> _Three weeks of dwelling on mortality and its ineluctable nature._
> 
> _Three weeks of pulsing, aching, debilitating fear that, **if he leaves my sight, I could lose him for good**._
> 
> _And, something finally gives._

*

It takes three weeks.

Three weeks of fitful, restless, scant sleep, plagued by visions of hellish fire and broken, burning bodies buried beneath the charred remains of a building once called _home_.

Three weeks of hypervigilance; flinching at flame swelling, roaring as it surges from the mouths of the fire-breathers, and flickering, spinning windmills lit ablaze recklessly juggled by skilled, though fallible, prone to error and all it would take is one miscalculation and the sawdust and straw and costumes and fabric of the tents would-- hands.

Three weeks of nerves stretched thin, braided cables coming unwound thread by thread and tension knotting where it lodges in shoulders, backs, and chests.

Three weeks of _what if_ s and _had I not_ s and phantoms of death and absence and claustrophobia mounting higher _higher_ **_higher_** , stomachs tossed by recurrent, visceral imagery of spines shattered and skin serrated under the structural casualties of a roof imploding.

Three weeks of dwelling on mortality and its ineluctable nature.

Three weeks of pulsing, aching, debilitating _fear_ that, _if he leaves my sight, I could lose him_ ** _for_** **_good_**.

And, something finally gives.

"You're coming home with me, tonight," P.T. says.

It's abrupt, out of nowhere, and jarring enough for Phillip to drop the pen he wasn't using, anyway, arms resting limp on his desktop and mind idle.

Phillip looks to his mentor, now _partner_ , eyes wide, and half-certain he's misheard.

P.T. seems to struggle, a battle waging internally, and Phillip recognizes the exhaustion weighing on him, sunken into his marrow, like staring at his own reflection. Skin turned sallow, cheekbones made distressingly prominent in the shadows of bruised-purple half-moons, stubble lining a jaw neglected by a lack of energy and will to tend to it, eyes wild yet devitalized, lustrous hazel and whisky dimmed to wan ghosts of their former glory. "Phillip, I…" P.T. says, at last. Then, with a clearing of his throat, he changes tracks, the _falter_ that Phillip detected, couldn't _possibly_ have missed with every ounce of his being fixed on his partner's every movement and mannerism, smoothly eradicated. "Come on. We need to hurry if we're going to catch the train."

There is a plethora of reasons why this "offer"- an _order_ , actually, with no effort to disguise it as anything else- is a terrible idea. Why Phillip should refuse it outright and prevent himself further heartache and P.T. potential embarrassment. A list of these reasons is already taking form in Phillip's head.

But… he thinks, again, _If I take my eyes off of him_ … _If he wanders out of reach_ , and his legs propel him out of his chair and over to the coatrack in their office, trembling as he takes up a place at P.T.'s side.

_This is where you want to be_ , his traitorous mind insists.

He's possessed by a brief, nonsensical urge to snag P.T.'s coat sleeve, cling to it for the entire duration of their journey. _For the rest of my life_. But, swiftly dismisses it as the product of a sleep-deprived mind.

The relief that settles into P.T.'s features, lights up the backs of his eyes, tugs the corners of his mouth into his staggeringly perfect crooked smile, seals a hole in Phillip's heart, even while further fracturing it down the middle.

That night shouldn't find them taking comfort in each other's arms. Shouldn't find Phillip's cheek pressed to P.T.'s chest, close enough to hear, to _feel_ his heartbeat, a tremulous flutter of hummingbird's wings that, with each slow inhale, every rise and fall of P.T.'s breast, decelerates to a normal, soothing ebb and flow. Rhythmic as the tides washing onto the shore.

P.T.'s chin shouldn't be resting against Phillip's temple as one of his hands sits, large and so very, very warm, on the curve of Phillip's back, while the other laces long, callused fingers into Phillip's hair, the metal of P.T's wedding band a strangely cooling balm on Phillip's scalp.

There is another list of reasons why everything about this- their entangled legs, their fluttering eyes just barely staying open, the synchronization of their breathing, the soft cotton of P.T.'s nightshirt and solid muscle of his chest, the comforting familiarity of his heady cologne and bergamot shampoo, the way they nest so easily, so _perfectly_ together- is wrong.

Damning. Immoral. Unnatural. Iniquitous and deplorable _sin._

Oh, what Phillip's parents would think of him, now. If they still think of him at all.

But, the patter of Phillip's heart, placated to match P.T.'s, hums a different tune, the reverberations of it affirming, enlivening, as it travels through his veins.

_This is where you want to be._

He breathes in, and P.T.'s scent floods out every trace of ash and smoke.

"Stay as long as you like," P.T. murmurs, voice thick, hushed with the sleep overtaking him.

It's been too long.

_Far_ too long for both of them. And, steadily, surely, Phillip is succumbing to his own marrow-deep exhaustion, eyes lidded, fingers curling loosely into P.T.'s shirt. It's so soft, and for the first time in a _very_ long time, Phillip and Phineas Taylor Barnum, the man who barged into Phillip's world, a hurricane incarnate that tore every facet of Phillip's barebones, pitiable existence up by the roots in a spectacular upheaval, and became Phillip's _everything_ , are _safe_.

"How about forever?" Phillip slurs, tongue clumsy as he drifts.

_There is no such thing_ , comes the reminder; the _warning_. At the back of his mind, dark shadows coalesce into a skeletal wraith, hooded raiments billowing around it as a distant clock _tick tick tick_ s.

Nevertheless, he sees P.T.'s smile, soft and radiant, feels it as P.T. shifts to rest his lips against Phillip's forehead, hears it, a warm and tangible thing, as P.T. tells him, "Forever is perfect."

It's not a building constructed of brick, mortar, or wood. It's not an exquisitely decorated caravan with character bursting out of every knickknack, wall-mount, blanket, and corner. It's not a tent, red and gold stripes a lighthouse beacon guiding every outcast of New York and beyond to a safe haven that they may at last call their own.

And, yet, in P.T.'s arms, the only thing that Phillip knows with every molecule that comprises him, is _Home_. _Finally,_ ** _finally_** _, I am_ ** _home_** _._


	15. quinze. completion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Chests shuddering with ragged gasps for air, Phineas and Phillip slump together against the porcelain of the bathtub._

*

Chests shuddering with ragged gasps for air, Phineas and Phillip slump together against the porcelain of the bathtub, blissful and fatigued, slick perspiration indistinguishable from water on their skin in their muggy, steam-filled washroom.

" _God_ , I _love_ you," Phineas breathes, nose nudging against Phillip's, hands tracing the breathtaking curvature of Phillip's spine and rear end, down to where their bodies are still connected.

Lazily, blue eyes hazy with pleasure and veiled by long black lashes, Phillip litters kisses over Phineas's jaw and cheeks, the juncture where his neck meets his shoulder, and the tip of his nose. "You, too," he whispers. Tenderly. Reverently. Every inch of him radiating a pure _devotion_ that makes Phineas's heart clench, swelling with a burst of affection so raw, so staggering, so _immense_ , he wonders for a moment if his body can contain it without splitting apart at the seams. "Beyond measure, and beyond words."

It's a sentiment echoed by every atom and fibre of Phineas's being.


	16. seize. hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The first time Phineas sees Phillip's hair genuinely messy is the night of the fire._

*

The first time Phineas sees Phillip's hair genuinely messy, meticulously groomed strands fallen loose, slicked and oiled sections in uncharacteristic disarray, is the night of the fire. Phillip's eyes, always intent, soul-piercing blue, are wide and panicked and tinged an unsettling green by the hellish orange glow.

_Then, they're closed, breaths_ **_just_ ** _fluttering between his ribs, bleeding gash in his forehead, perfect, perfect face and clothes smudged with ash and soot, body limp and unmoving, and it's a sight that Phineas wishes he could forget, and knows with everything he is that he never will._

The second time is when Phillip stays overnight in the Barnum home for the very first time.

Phillip stirs groggily that following morning, eyes still half-closed, protests against waking slurred and rasping in a way that warms Phineas's core right through. The painstakingly maintained image of coiffed and polished upper class perfection is laid by the wayside, if only for this moment, and softly curling tendrils, shining gold in the pooling sunlight, hang across Phillip's forehead as he pulls the blankets up to his ears and mumbles a plea for "five more minutes".

In this state, warm, sleepy, pliable, Phineas can imagine the boy that Phillip once was. Before the canings, before the lashes, before Phillip's severely restrictive upbringing tried to strangle, smother, and wring every last drop of life from him.

He presses a kiss to Phillip's nose and the hairs that fall over the scar on a _still_ perfect face, happily obliging. "Five more minutes."

Then, he shifts back down the bed and nestles in beside Phillip, drawing him close and tucking the younger man's head under his chin.

Contentedly, Phillip burrows back into him, his languid breaths gentle, ticklish, and every limb goes slack as he drifts off, once more. Free of the debilitating need to mold himself into something "acceptable" to the world outside their home, to measure up to expectations no living creature with any Lilliputian grain of individuality could ever meet. Walls no more than dust and inexhaustibly vigilant guards dismissed from their posts.

Perfectly untidy hairs brush the hollow of Phineas's throat. He breathes in the lingering scent of ink, mint, Macassar oil, and himself on Phillip's skin.

Phillip, _his_ Phillip, in repose. A wonderfully, _gorgeously_ tranquil sight that coaxes Phineas down a familiar footpath, beckoning him to join his partner in the welcoming embrace of sound slumber for just a few minutes more.


End file.
